"It's coming again!"

Stenvar's normally deep voice was pitched high with panic. Athene tried to get herself up off the snowy ground, but her legs were numb and breathing hurt her bruised chest. She turned to see her mercenary shoved off his feet by an ice wraith, pitched five feet backward along a line of bright frost.

"I'm on my way. Just hold on."

She'd meant to yell, but it came out a whisper.

The glowing remains of another ice wraith slipped her up and she pitched forward too quickly. She got her blades up in time to use the weight of her body to sink them hard into the living wraith's hide. It felt like her hands had been plunged into ice water. The wraith hissed and spat, and spewing frozen guts into her face. Athene's eyeballs felt like ice and she reared back, too late realizing her knives were actually stuck in the monster.

It died with a crackle and a puff of intense cold, evaporating to nothing.

She dropped into the snow on her ass.

"Errgh," she groaned. "Stenvar? You still with me?"

A muffled grunt and the sound of a large body turning over was his reply. Then eventually: "I am. And pretty glad I got paid up front, to be honest."

Athene closed her eyes. They burned beneath her eyelids. Leave it to Galmar to fail to mention that Serpentstone Isle wasn't just home to an ice wraith. It was home to half a dozen ice wraiths that attacked on sight. Thank the divines she'd decided to bring a friend.

Not that the Nord warrior struggling to his feet in steel armor was exactly a friend. She'd seen him around Candlehearth Hall, offering his services, but he never bragged about past adventures no matter how many people paid him. So she hired him with the hope he'd be discrete.

If he'd died, she'd be assured of his silence. Still, she was glad enough he'd survived. She was starting to get a bit of a rush out of living through six ice wraiths and the frigid swim from the coast.

She stumbled to her feet and began sawing the teeth out of the creatures. All the creatures. If Galmar wanted proof, she'd give it to him. Even if he found out about Stenvar, that was six wraiths divided by two, three wraiths each. She'd proven something.

They made it back to the coast and set up camp some way from a group of horkers. The animals were grumpy but they'd make a fuss if some wolves came along, so they were a good alarm system.

As well as being a fighter, Stenvar made a good Apple Cabbage Stew. Athene sat back, letting the fire dry her armor and warm her body while the smell of the stew drifted around her head. It was good to be out of Windhelm for a few days, and out of the room she'd been renting at the hall. It wasn't like the air in the city was any less fresh than out here, considering how the wind seemed to blow right through the stone walls, but being away reminded her that she wasn't actually a wannabe Stormcloak. She had a larger purpose.

And the hiss of an ice wraith as it died had reminded her she was alive.

"What's your story?" she said to her mercenary, and chef, who dished up the stew.

"Eh? Er." He laughed quietly and handed her a bowl. "I don't have one."

"Everyone has a story."

"Oh yeah? What's yours?"

"Not fair. You haven't even answered my question yet."

"Yeah. Well, I guess I'm just a guy who hangs around in pubs until pretty women give them money."

"Nice deflection."

"Thanks."

"That's odd, you know," she said. "Flirting with an elf. And you being a good Windhelm Nord and all."

"If you think all Nords in Windhelm are the same, you haven't been there long enough."

Athene shrugged. "Have you?"

"I grew up there."

"Is it very different, thanks to the civil war?"

"It hasn't changed much my whole life, to be honest. There have always been the dark elves around, and the Argonians outside. Jarl Ulfric's father ruled much like his son does now. And it snows. And snows. The main difference is the Stormcloaks. They used to be regular men and women who complained about the Empire. Now they wear uniforms and complain even louder."

He glanced at her, blowing on her stew.

"No offence," he said.

"None taken. Spend some time in the barracks and see how often the Empire gets put down. Its ears must be burning."

That was a stupid thing to say, Athene thought. She busied herself slurping dinner.

Stenvar nodded. "I bet. How do they treat you? You know, because you're an elf."

"Strangely, people are decent."

"I don't know why they wouldn't be anyway. I spent tonnes of time in the Grey Quarter when I was a kid. No one was anything but nice to me. There was this one, Casimir, used to give me some sweet. It was—what was it? This sticky sweet, kind of reddish, on bread?"

"Are you kidding? How should I know? Do I look like a Dunmer?"

"Sorry."

The silence became irritating.

Athene sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped. I just get that kind of thing a lot. Bosmer culture is about as close to the Dunmer as it is to the Nords."

"Yeah, I get it," he said quickly. "I didn't mean it."

"That's kind of a sign of how things are though, isn't it? You grew up in a city surrounded by elves, and you still don't differentiate between one or the other. I'm not trying to make you feel bad, but honestly. It shows you a lot about the place, doesn't it? Home of the Stormcloaks."

"You're the one who joined them," he said. "If that's how you feel, why'd you do it?"

"You know what? I didn't want to talk about this. Let's pretend we never did."

"Fine."

"Good."

The fire wasn't warming her any more, and she felt like a bit of a hypocrite eating his stew. But still, she ate it. And then she sipped her mead slowly, begging heat to flush through her limbs.

"We'd stay a lot warmer if we bundled up tonight," he said. "You know. Together."

It was tempting. Despite their argument—or perhaps because of it—she was feeling restless and bothered, and still stirred by up by the battle with the wraiths. She had this one night away from the Palace of the Kings and then back to pretending to be the model Empire-hater. This Nord didn't care what or who she was, and he was only borderline interested in her interest in the Stormcloaks. He was probably just being polite by asking about them. But he was definitely interested in something else.

That had long been her guide for a suitable partner: someone uninterested enough that their opinion of her mattered even less than her opinion of them. So much less complicated than trying to figure out whether Farkas would kiss her, and what it meant when he did.

Thinking of it that way, she wasn't sure it was such a great idea.

"All right," she said anyway, and scooted closer. It was, after all, possibly her last night of freedom for a while. And however her time with the Stormcloaks progressed, as soon as she stuck her blade into Ulfric things were going to get messy, quickly. Windhelm might no longer be an option for anything, let alone socializing.

Yeah. She was really overthinking this.

Stenvar was warm and enthusiastic. Tonight, that was enough.